Liberation
“The ant’s a centaur in his dragon world.” Cantos, LXXXI
My heart is broken
for the olives fallen
for the uncollected
displaced by now
bruised and rotten.
My heart is broken
for the wood
not burnt
to warm the weevils
that must have come.
There is a weight pushing
me down into the couch
I stand up and sit down
over and over all day
which stretches into
night, incredibly short
night. Cry baby cry
for all the next
Christmases and Birthdays
for all the women
you supposedly save
by warning them,
killing their husbands
and their sons.
The Higgs Boson
This is no ordinary fatique,
looking through the posts
about Fenton glass, microwave cookware
and sheets through a storm.
Through boxes and happy birthdays
to find footage of his funeral,
I am on a mission in space
hoping for a timestamp.
About the same time
they were carrying your father
from the house to the cemetary
you scalded yourself with a cup of boiling coffee.
I'd been warning you of such a mess
for a long time but you insist
on refusing condolences,
treasuring your sweet secret another day.
As you open the cash drawer
over and over tomorrow and the next
day and the next, please
think of the pain on your knee.
Think of the time laspe world
in which we live, in which
fathers and sons try their best
to run the experiment backwards.
I think a new widow reminds me
of a bride, I think your father
scolded you at a distance
last night as you screamed out.
Life is this super collider
and as they lifted his coffin
a bit too quickly, the atoms
and molecules rearranged your DNA.
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